


Notified

by sangriche (mntyaggrssn)



Series: Venetian Nights [1]
Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood Sharing, Dom/sub, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Modern AU, SheepSkeleton inspired this with her Snapchat art, and iPhones, light belt whipping, marius is daddy af, the vampires have snapchat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10016972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mntyaggrssn/pseuds/sangriche
Summary: Marius is in for a long and boring night at his art studio in downtown San Francisco, until a certain Botticelli Angel catches his eye on Lestat's Snapchat story.





	1. Portraits

_Bzzzt._ _Bzzzt. Bzzzt._ _Bzz-_   

Marius snatched the cell phone up mid-vibration as the display lit up with multiple notifications from Snapchat.  

 _“BitchPrince_ _sent a Snap_ _”_ read the alerts, not even seconds apart. Even as Marius quickly keyed in his passcode, the phone continued to buzz gently in his palm. As the last digit was entered, the vibrations stopped, and the interface of app was suddenly on the screen. The contact opened, revealing photos of none other than the Brat (or in this case, Bitch) Prince himself, the vampire Lestat, at a Wal-Mart Supercenter posing with various commonplace products. One such Snap read,  _“_ _Mon Dieu_ _! #_ _spellbound”_  with Lestat holding a bottle of L’Orèal children’s shampoo.  

The Roman could not help but sigh as he tapped through senseless photo after senseless photo. While Lestat used modern technology for his amusement, Marius preferred to simply  _view_  the online escapades of his friends, only offering occasional photos of new paintings or links to audio files of music or scholarly articles he enjoyed. 

After tapping through an unprecedented amount of photos (including a photo of Lestat wearing a pair of headphones resembling a crown of jewels), Marius happened across a portrait of Lestat and Armand. Even after the centuries had passed, Marius did not tire of looking at the Botticelli angel of a boy. Dressed in a blue cable knit sweater over a white dress shirt, Armand looked sophisticated and, frankly, disinterested, yet boyish at the same time. Ignoring the fact that Lestat was dressed in a muscle tank top and captioned the image with,  _“_ _#bestbros_ _(he so smol_ _< 33),”_ Marius closed Lestat’s contact and selected the contact for Armand, labeled,  _“S8tn_ _sChi_ _ld1_ _497”_ _._  

The camera opened at tap of a finger, already positioned on Marius’s face. After studying his own face in the different lightings and adjusting his tie, Marius snapped a photo. A preview appeared, and Marius studied the image for a moment before discarding it and taking another. This time, he posed his chin on his hand languidly  and shifted his features into an expression of boredom.  

 _“You_ _look_ _ed_ _bored_ _w/ Lestat_ _._ _Come to the studio? Everyone else is gone.”_  

His fingers spelled out the message at a break-neck speed while his eyes quickly reviewed it for error. Finding nothing, he tapped a button and sent the Snap.  

While he waited for a response, Marius stared out the open window while toying with the paint brushes lying around, and he couldn't help but think that the scarlet-orange light outside resembled Armand’s hair. Just as he was running his thumb over the brush bristles and listening to the light traffic outside, his phone vibrated on the tabletop.  

 _“S8tnsChild1497_ _sent you a_ _Snap_ _.”_ The display read. Marius’s passcode had never been entered faster.  

 _“Be right over_ ;) _”_ Armand had written over a photograph of himself lying in a bed, wearing seemingly nothing at all.  

 _How easily_ _photographs capture the soul of the subject_ , Marius thought, screenshotting the photo seconds before it disappeared, fully aware Armand would know what he’d done. After the image expired, he studied the copy he saved. There seemed no use for his studio now, when one could simply snap a photograph. However, his medium of oil paints survived in those wanting a classical, antique touch to their home. Marius painted men, women, and children that desired to be captured like neoclassical, romantic beings out of time.  

Sometimes, if the subject was particularly beautiful to Marius, he asked them to pose for nude portraits in exchange for their commission. Thus, he had an entire large wall full of nude or barely clothed utterly striking humans. He had masculine strong men, delicate androgynous things, and soft supple women with ages ranging from the youthful years of Armand to mature beings like himself. He enjoyed painting the ones with so-called imperfections the most: scars, freckles, marks where the skin stretched, or areas that had more weight than what was considered average. They reminded him of the beautiful neoclassical figures of old that would be mocked in this modern age. 

Perhaps, if Marius was truly enthralled with the subject, he invited them to stay after painting the nude portrait because they were so beautiful, and well, their clothes were already off and there was a very plush divan right there.   

The rest of the coven did not know, of course. If the rational ones like Louis, Pandora, and the twins found out they would put an end to it instantly, citing well-intentioned mortal laws which prevented individuals that looked to be his age from engaging with those under the age of eighteen. But his studio was private, and getting in trouble with mortal policemen was of little concern when he could easily fill their pockets into silence. Not one of the beautiful mortals he had worshiped cared that he appeared much older them. In fact, many of them seemed to enjoy it, making a note to tell him that he was unlike anyone else they had ever had.  

At night, Marius would sometimes return to the studio to find double or even triple what the original commission would have been spread out on the divan. He always mailed it back with a note in delicate script urging the client to keep the money, that it was an honor, not a service, to have painted them twice and spent them until they shook like leaves on a winter tree and cried out the false name he had given them.  

“Master?” Came a voice from the corridor. It echoed off of the exposed ductwork and steel beams. Marius turned to face the voice and smiled. Armand stood in the door frame, wearing a baggy denim jacket, very tight jeans, and plain black sneakers. His auburn curls were mused and messy, perhaps the work of a product, and framed his white face in a curtain of fire.  

"Yes Cherub, come here.” Marius rose to meet him, delighting in having to dip his head down in order to kiss his angel. They parted for a moment, and Marius half-heartedly entertained the thought of exchanging pleasantries. Armand made the decision for him and craned his neck to kiss Marius. As they kissed, he lifted the boy’s body up onto the table full of pots of powder pigment and linseed oil. Armand purred as Marius pressed his hot kiss to the boy’s throat and gently pushed the jacket off his shoulders. The heavy denim hit the table with a thud, and Marius paused to gingerly pick it up and cast it to the floor. Then, he slowly pushed Armand’s shirt up as the angel leaned back on the palms of his hands, watching as long fingers slid up his small frame. 

Just as he was about to instruct the boy to raise his arms, Armand whined, “Sir, please.” Marius looked up and locked gazes with Armand, and the boy’s regret showed instantly. Marius let the shirt fall, and kissed Armand, all the while tilting him back onto the table, eventually pinning him down by his wrists.  

“Now Amadeo,” Marius whispered, using the name he had given the boy so long ago, “you know better than to beg. Are you so base you are no better than a wretched mutt?”  

“No Sir, I am not base,” Armand replied. Marius could hear the child’s heart beating in his chest, pumping the vampiric blood so hard a sheen of blood-sweat formed on his angel’s fair brow. Marius leaned forward to kiss and lick away the sweat, causing Armand to produce even more.  

"Should you be punished, boy?” Marius asked, trailing a long glass-like fingernail down Armand’s cheek and neck, pausing at the base of his throat where the blood beat strong.

“Your will is my will, Master,” Armand replied.  

“Perfect,” Marius grinned, before pulling his lover’s shirt off and pushing it aside. He pulled the boy’s body up, running his hands through his hair and over his bare flesh.  

Once Armand was sitting up, Marius bit his own lip and kissed him, letting Armand suck gently to taste the blood. They pulled away for a moment, so that Armand’s long, thin fingers could pull on the tie at Marius's neck, push the plush red velvet jacket off of his shoulders, and undo the shirt buttons with preternatural speed. Marius felt the delicate hands glide over his body and the fingers slip through his hair. Armand wrapped his denim-clad legs around his Master’s waist to hold him tight as he kissed him, and Marius clutched the boy to his body as Armand found the buckle of his pants.  

“Let’s go someplace private, Cherub,” Marius murmured as he untangled his hands from the auburn curls. With ease, he lifted Armand in his arms and carried him to his private bedroom.  

“You carry me like a bride over her husband’s threshold,” Armand laughed.  

“Oh?” Marius said, raising an eyebrow. “Would you rather be carried like  _this?”_ And so Marius threw Armand over his shoulder, leaving the boy’s head and arms to dangle helplessly. Marius laughed so much his entire frame shook when Armand beat against his back weakly.  

“Sir!” Protested Armand, “what have I done to deserve this?” 

“You've been away too long, Amadeo. You neglect your Master,” He replied.  

“Am I to be punished, Sir?” Armand asked after a pause, and Marius was able to hear the longing in his tone.  

Marius smirked, “Perhaps, child.”  

Marius opened the door to his private rooms without the use of his hands and pulled the bed curtains back in the same manner. He playfully threw the boy down onto the covers like a rag doll and slid a pillow under his curls just as his head fell.  

As the Roman gracefully leaned over his lover to kiss him, his hair fell over his shoulder, and a delicate hand reached up to pull it harshly. It was against their rules for Armand to inflict pain without permission, but Marius decided to punish him later. Armand’s hands wandered as he was showered with kisses, and his nails bit into Marius’s sides wonderfully when the Roman nipped his neck, but Marius did not break the flesh. 

“Damn you, tease!” Armand whined as Marius’s lips brushed his neck. Marius halted his advances instantly. In a preternatural movement, Marius flipped Armand onto his stomach, tore off the tight denim, and held his belt in his hands.  

“What have I told you about cursing?” He reprimanded, bringing the belt down on Armand’s legs as he dug his knee into the small of the boy’s back.  

“That it is ‘the crutch on which the intellectually crippled rest,’” The boy recited. Marius brought the belt down twice.  

“Do I detect sauciness in your tone?” He asked, trailing the belt down Armand’s back and testing the boy with the arcane adjective.  

“No Sir, none at all,” Armand replied sternly.  

“Very good.” Marius kissed where the belt struck, before gently turning Armand over. He gathered the small figure to his chest and kissed his shoulders, then the base of his throat, where he felt the hot pulse beat rapidly under his lips. Marius’s cheeks prickled as the blood rose to them. Such a shame, thought Marius as he sucked at the pale flesh, that the blood did not travel to other, lower places.  

As soon as he formed the thought, he felt Armand’s fingers dip into his trousers, lightly brushing his thighs and the useless organ, the touch so delicate that it caused a shiver to pass through his body, as if he’d been able to read his thoughts. Marius stopped, and reluctantly parted from the fast-fading bruise on the pale flesh to share a wordless exchange with the boy, whose touch slowly snaked away from the Roman.  

Marius leaned forward and placed a kiss on Armand’s head, the fine-spun thread of his hair tickling Marius’s nostrils.  

“I know,” he murmured against his angel’s hair, “I want it too. I've wanted it for five hundred years, to give it to you and you alone my Cherub. I’ve never forgotten how you wanted to take me, how disappointed you were that night. I was too, and I am still.”  

“It’s of no consequence now Master. Your blood is sweeter still,” Armand said, combing Marius’s flaxen curls and gently letting his nails scratch his lover’s head in a way that made Marius purr.  

Tentatively, Armand opened his lips against where they rested on Marius’s neck. After a hesitant pause, resulting in Marius whispering, “take it,” Marius felt Armand’s teeth pierce his neck.  

He couldn't help but gasp at the sharp sting and the feeling of his Cherub’s lips at his throat. He let his eyes slip closed and the gasp dissolved into a breathy moan. This sound caused Armand to pause for a moment and look at his Master. He quickly realized the noise was in pleasure, not pain, and moaned into Marius as the powerful blood filled him from the top of his head to his toes. When Armand moaned under him, Marius felt the vibrations on his own flesh, eliciting a broken groan from his lips. Marius stroked Armand’s hair as he drank, and he couldn't help but whimper in protest when Armand pulled away. His own blood shone on Armand’s lips; it was impossible not to stare.  

“Taste yourself,” Armand whispered, as he gathered blood on his fingers, his voice raw and deep with lust. He placed the wet, red fingers to Marius’s lips and the Roman readily accepted them, taking in the scent of his own blood. Marius closed his eyes and purred, drawing the boy’s fingers to him and gently pressing them to his lips before slowly licking them. Armand watched him raptly, and Marius could not conceal his grin as he placed each finger in his mouth to suck them in turn before carefully taking on both of the boy’s delicate fingers.  

Armand drew his fingers back and pulled Marius to him. When their lips met, Armand daringly skated his tongue across Marius’s lip, surprising the older vampire. He moaned in gratitude and Armand did the same, causing them to part and smile at one another. When Armand kissed his Master again, he also surprised him again. The boy had bitten his own tongue. Marius nearly swooned when he tasted Armand, and he couldn't help but recall a brilliant Venetian night so long ago. Marius fell back into the bed, his mind tumbling over itself like a watermill.  

“Amadeo,” he said as his Cherub kissed his body, “I want it. I shall be your slave once again.”  

“Then take what is yours, Master.” Armand replied as he pushed Marius’s trousers down. As the Roman kicked the garment away, Armand ran his hands quickly over the body that was as hard and white as marble before baring his throat. Marius rose, kneeling, and pulled the small boy to him in a way that made Armand kneel and straddle Marius. Now, every part of their bare skin touched, and Marius again thought about how it was such a pity they both possessed the Dark Gift.  

“Do it,” the Cherub whispered when Marius hesitated. He closed his eyes and broke the perfect skin. The blood flooded Marius as if a dam had been broken and not an inch of him was spared. The blood touched even his thoughts; images of Venetian nights so many moons ago poured into him with the rich blood. He saw the filthy brothel where he had first lain eyes on his angel, the steaming bath he had first seduced him in, then the night the foolish boy attempted to take what his Master had taken from himself so many times.  

“Yes Master,” Armand breathed as Marius slid his hands down the boy’s body to dig his nails into Armand’s thighs, “hurt me.” 

The Roman was suddenly reminded of the night he first lashed his lover. How devilish the angel seemed then. Marius reached his hand as far as he could down the length of the boy’s thigh before slowly dragging his hand up the white flesh.  

“My God,” Armand gasped, “I love you,” he said in Italian, “Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo.” With great effort, Marius parted from his lover’s neck, ending the visions from so long ago. 

“That’s  _te_ amo,” He reprimanded, attempting to remain stern, but his façade cracked like a stoic Roman bust shattered on a marble floor as his words slurred and he tumbled back onto the bed. 

“Look at you,” Armand said with a breathless chuckle, “I've never seen you in such a state. You would think I was a drunkard from the gutter that you drank from!” 

Of course,” the cherub smirked, “I could have very well had a midnight feast.”  

“Nonsense!” Marius muttered with a grin. “The light is coming,” he offered. 

“And the powerful Marius de Romanus feels the pull of the sun’s sleep?” Armand asked, cocking his head to the side in the perfect image of a modern teenaged child.  

“Yes,” Marius answered, turning to lay on his back, “He does. Especially if his Cherub has deceivingly intoxicated him. Look at the curtains. The light is nearly here. Draw them closed, Amadeo.”  

“Of course, Master,” came the velvety reply.  

“And draw the curtains on the bed as well, unless you would rather have the chance of bursting into flames.” 

“Yes Master,” Armand said, obeying his Maker’s commands.  

“Good my child,” Marius responded, “now come take the death sleep with me.” Without a word, Armand lifted the brocaded duvet away and slipped under the covers.  

“Sleep well, Master,” Armand said after the Roman joined him. 

“For harbingers of death, we are warm,” Marius whispered into Armand’s neck as he drew the small body up against his skin.  

“Go to sleep, Marius,” Armand scolded, yet secretly grinning in the dark.  

“Never call me Marius, unless you desire punishment,” Marius murmured, kissing his angel’s neck where he had broken the flesh.  

“Of course,  _Marius_ ,” Armand replied, and Marius knew he was smiling madly.  

“I love you,” Marius whispered, gripping his Cherub tighter.  

“I love you too, Master,” Armand said, and it was the last thing Marius heard before the death sleep took him in her arms.  


	2. Perfumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night after.

When Marius awoke the next evening, the first thing he saw was red. Then, with a pace slower than a drunken mortal, his senses returned to him. He felt the body of his love, his Cherub, pressed against him, and the previous night came rushing back to him.

The Roman saw his fingers flying over an electronic keyboard: “ _Come to the studio…_ ”

He saw himself pushing Armand’s shirt off, the black fabric contrasting so beautifully with the snow-white flesh.

He saw the visions of Venice, of racking his Cherub with pleasure.

Marius unwrapped his hand from around the boy’s waist and saw the blood streaked across his Cherub’s back; the scratches that must have been there had healed, leaving no mark of their presence. It was slightly amusing, as Marius did not remember doing it in the slightest. He had never thought himself the type.

The Roman sat up, and his world spun in tandem with a light ache in his head.   _Had Armand taken intoxicated blood before he arrived?_

After the slight dizziness subsided, Marius resolved to lapse into his age-old tradition of a hot Roman bath. With supernatural grace, Marius disentangled himself from his old lover and started for the bathroom, but not before stealing a final look at his angel.

Armand lay on his side, with auburn curls splayed out in a feminine halo that complemented the complete and utter relaxation of his face. The child’s expression was startling—it seemed as if Marius had been thrown back in time. Armand’s features were so softened he was very nearly human.

_Do not paint him._ Marius thought.   _Do not paint him._

It was finished in less than an hour.

This time, Marius chose to paint precisely the scene before him, no embellishments, no angels, just Amadeo. Just Amadeo and the slivers of early moonlight cutting across the Botticelli face. The moonlight painted a cold, metallic picture of his Cherub on canvas, as if the boy were encased in ice, or underwater, but there was no harshness to be found here, only childlike purity. Satisfied, the Roman finally went to take his bath.

It was a chore, but a relaxing one, to fill the large, sandstone tub with hot water, to drop in his favorite oils. By a miracle of the modern era, mortals had discovered how to transform nearly anything into a scented oil for very little money, and Marius could not get enough. For every client that came through his studio, he always requested they buy him a bottle of oil from the modern apothecary across the street. Thus, much like his nude portraits, he possessed a wall of oils of various sizes and scents, but his favorites were pomegranate and cypress. They reminded him of the perfume that pedlars claimed was the same recipe of Julius Caesar.

Once he was sure the oils had diffused into the water, the Roman slid into the hot bath, but not before finding an elastic—surely a relic of a female client—to tie his hair up in a knot.

There was something nearly orgasmic about the ritual, about soaking up the heat of the water like some reptile, and Marius had great difficulty suppressing a deep sigh of pleasure. He lost himself in the tart pomegranate and clean, heady cypress, until the slap of a bare foot on marble caused his senses to return.

Amadeo stood in the doorway, still naked, still bloodied, still beautiful.

“Come, my darling,” Marius smiled. “The water never gets cold in these modern innovations.”

“Does it?” Armand asked as he crossed the space and climbed into the tub with the same preternatural grace.

“Yes,” Marius hummed. “It’s quite marvelous.”

“But there are far more fascinating things in the world, my Cherub,” the Roman mock-whispered. “Let me take care of you, like the old days.”

“Very well,” Armand sighed as he sank into the scented water and closed his eyes. He heard his Master move in the water, pause, then come towards him. The boy felt something cold drizzling onto his chest and shoulders, then the cloying, drunken scent of honey came to him. Armand opened his eyes to find Marius hovering over him, sudsy cloth in hand, and a very familiar expression etched into the marble features.

“What are you smiling at, child?” the Roman asked, suddenly stern and authoritarian again as he lathered soap over the boy’s delicate shoulders.

“Your face,” Armand answered. “It’s the same expression you wear when you paint.”

“That should be expected,” he explained. “I am working on one of God’s masterpieces.”

“You dote on me like a mother hen! I think I'm clean enough; allow me to return the favor.” The Cherub smiled, sitting up and taking the cloth from his Master’s hands, and reaching for the liquid soap.

“Now,” Armand said as he dutifully scrubbed Marius’s torso, “what are _you_ smiling at, Sir?”

“You look so human when you concentrate like that,” Marius answered, taking the cloth from Armand’s hand and pulling him up to kiss him.

“You should take your hair out of this knot,” the child murmured in between kisses. “There’s sweat on your brow.”

No sooner had Armand suggested that his Master’s hair be washed did Marius feel nimble fingers remove the elastic and his flaxen curls brushed his shoulders. With a thought, Marius summoned a bottle of shampoo, and it landed with a small splash in the tub.

“I thought you didn't like using the Mind Gift,” Armand said, reaching for the bottle.

“It can be incredibly useful,” Marius replied, as he passed a clay pitcher of steaming water to Armand and reclined into his child’s arms.

“I am aware,” the Cherub hummed, pouring the water over his Master and scrubbing the hair clean. After Armand rinsed the soap from the Marius’s hair, it was his turn to have the blood sweat scrubbed away.

As Marius’s slim fingers worked the soap into the auburn curls, he was reminded once more of steaming baths in Venice. The Roman halted his scrubbing, and allowed his hand to slide down the length of Armand’s body, cursing the ancient blood in them again. Marius was glad his child’s back was to him, for he would have seen the pain on his face.

“Don't you wish we were mortal again, if only for a moment?” Marius whispered into his Cherub’s ear as he kneeled in the water, allowing his teeth to scrape the small shell and make the body beneath him shiver. The Roman’s arm snaked around and up his lover’s body to brush the sudsy hair to one side and bare the long, pale neck.

“More than anything on this earth,” Armand breathed.

Marius kissed the slender neck without regard for the bitterness of the soap. He felt the boy tilt his head back and hold his hands, the desire to guide them where blood never flowed greater than the thirst for the hunt.

“Face me,” the angel whispered. “I want to see you.” At his Cherub’s command, Marius turned him around to face him, and the boy fell into his arms.

“I want you again,” the Roman whispered, his eyes closed against the feeling of Armand’s lips at his chest and throat.

“Can you have me while I take you?” Came the murmured response.

“We may certainly try,” Marius said, and he felt his pulse jump in his throat and a knot form in his stomach at the prospect of something unknown.

Marius sank to the bottom of the tub after haphazardly rinsing the shampoo from Armand’s hair. The Roman was sure he would drop the pot into the dirtied water on account of his shaking hands, but his lover dutifully calmed him with kind words and kisses.

Armand smiled at his Master as he lowered his body into the steaming water, and the desire to be mortal again struck them both as the boy’s thigh brushed the Roman’s useless organ. The look of hopeless longing was nearly enough to break them both into tears.

“We must not think of such things, my Cherub,” Marius whispered, almost bitterly, once Armand was on top of him. “We must think of what will have.”

“Wise as ever, Master,” Armand smiled, winding his thin arms around the slender white neck and pulling the vampire close for a kiss. When they separated, their lips traced a pattern to opposite sides of the other’s neck.

The pain was non-existent. Pleasure was the only thing that was, and ever would be. Marius wanted to throw his head back and moan as his angel drank, but the blood came into him without end. The visions were simply indescribable. The Roman saw everything. He saw his own memories of before Venice in Ancient Rome, caring for Those Who Must Be Kept, juxtaposed with passionate nights in his plaza, surrounded by red and his Amadeo. Marius could almost feel the pleasure he gave his Cherub as the memories of the endless spending rushed over him from Amadeo’s mind.

_Amadeo. Oh, Amadeo. Does this compare to what I took from you so many moons ago? It must. It simply has to._ As if from a great distance, or perhaps underwater, Marius heard Armand moan into him, heard the water splash as Armand pulled his body flush with his Master’s. He felt fingers wind through his hair and grasp a fistful in a fit of pleasure, then those same fingers dug into his shoulders and he did not care. The pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure so intensely Marius was sure he would die. Is this what Amadeo felt? What all those mortals feel as they cry out his name? It had to be. One could carry on forever like this, taking while being taken from. Marius wanted it to go on forever. He never wanted the visions or the pain or the blood to cease.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” an accented voice echoed in the tiled bathroom. “Just what in  _hell_  are you doing?”

The voice ripped the lovers apart like a violent shock had gone through the both of them.

They recoiled, panting, to face the voice.

There, in Marius’s private studio, in his very bathroom, stood the vampire Lestat, his blond hair fanned out over a blue velvet suit.

“Having a bath,” Marius breathed. “Join us and you shall know what ancient Massilia was like.”

“I’d rather not,” Lestat said, tossing back his curls with disgusting, arrogant grace. “You were expected at a meeting in Miami last night. After not receiving a word from either of you, I was sent to make sure some foolish mortal hadn't destroyed you both.”

“I see that is not the case,” Lestat said, approaching the bath, “You both posted those Snaps publicly when you sent them, by the way.”

If Armand was embarrassed, he did not show it. “Well, we were clearly busy, you insufferable brat,” he spat, standing up and wringing the water out of his auburn curls.

“I think,” Armand said, climbing out of the tub to push past a very much miffed Brat Prince. “I’d like a snack.”

“I couldn't eat another thing,” Marius whispered, turning to face Lestat.

When Marius turned he discovered he was alone. The blond devil had vanished like a spirit, leaving the Roman alone in his bath, surrounded by the scent of honey, pomegranate, and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a chapter two, more like a part two. This might be the last story I write about Marius and Armand, it might not be, who knows. But if I do write more, I will definitely post it here! If anyone wants to link this fic to Sheepskeleton, please do! I'd love for her to see it! I hope you enjoy Part Two! Comments and Kudos appreciated ^_^
> 
> ~mnty

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first post on ao3 and I’m so excited to be here! Thanks to SheepSkeleton for inspiring this fic with her art! I hope you enjoyed this fic!
> 
> xoxo  
> PS: I know this isn’t how Snapchat really works, but sometimes things have to be manipulated to work


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